


Something In The Way

by wordsliketeeth



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Dominance, F/M, Healing, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecurity, Internal Conflict, Light BDSM, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mild Blood, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Play, Reader is V's Sister, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Self-Discovery, Song Lyrics, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 10:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17364290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsliketeeth/pseuds/wordsliketeeth
Summary: "It's the blood and the bruises and the threat that makes Saeran feel whole again. But the expense of that happiness is coupled with a fear he's never felt before; he's not afraid, he's terrified, and it's an emotion that keeps him up at night. It makes his breath catch in his throat and his heart beat like the wildfire that burns through his veins." Saeran is trying to fit in after he's removed from Mint Eye but it's not as easy as it seems. A somewhat poetic look at his journey of self-discovery and healing.





	Something In The Way

_Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam._ _Sunbeams are never made like me. Don't expect me to cry for all the reasons you had to die. Don't ever ask your love of me._

Saeran stares up at the sky, his neck angled back and his face tilted up toward the raindrops falling from the clouds like cold tears belonging to the unforeseen King of Kings. His hair is soaked through and curling to the wet, soft pale strands clinging to the delicate contour of his cheekbones. He exhales a slow breath and thinks about inhaling the damp, letting the water fill his lungs instead of the humid weight of oxygen. The sky is a dark shade of gray, the color depressing enough without the dismal suspicion that the rain saturating his clothes isn't letting up anytime soon.

He asks himself why he still comes here when he doesn't believe. He thinks—perhaps even knows deep down—that it's for Saeyoung and the cross that's forever attached to his person. He remembers asking his brother what it meant once and why it was so important to him, why he believed in something so mendacious, so full of deceit and hypocrisy. He remembers the way Saeyoung curled his fingers around his shoulder, almost laughing as he shook his head in a gesture that was supposed to illustrate some kind of playful disbelief. But the laughter never came and happiness never touched his eyes before he walked away, leaving Saeran to wonder if his twin shared a secret with this _God_ he so desperately wanted Saeran to believe in.

Saeran thinks that Saeyoung's the lucky one. That he's been chosen as someone to be revered, someone sacrosanct and _precious_. He wonders if that's why Saeyoung was offered freedom when he was left to chance, when he had been forsaken and left to perish and suffer like the miscreant he'd been made to believe he was.

Saeran fixes his attention on the shape of the church behind him and wonders if there's a place for someone like him within those sacred walls. He stares at the large crucifix hanging on the brick exterior just above the entrance until his vision goes blurry and he has to shut his eyes against the splash of the rain that's coming down harder now. Something winds tight in the space just below his ribcage and he feels like he's standing in the shadow of a place he's not welcome. Still, he reopens his eyes and stares at Christ through the weight of his lashes, feeling a chill snake around the entire length of his spine. He shivers and wraps his arms around his too-thin frame in an attempt to harvest whatever whit of warmth his body has left to offer. As to be expected, it's not much and he can already foresee Saeyoung's look of disapproval when he returns home, the pale of his skin like that of a ghost, and the dark of his eyes warring with the deepest shadows of his insomnia. The shiver that shakes him to stiffness and the tremor of his lips, gone blue-gray and numb with cold. It wouldn't be enough to drive him forward on his own but he's no longer alone—a concept still so foreign to him—and as the chill of rain trickles down and under the collar of his hooded sweatshirt, he reminds himself of what it means to care.

So he turns around and starts in the direction of home but he can't shake the feeling that he's being watched. He follows a shudder through his veins and digs his fingers into the self-inflicted cuts and bruises that mar his arm. It's far from satisfactory and even further from the pain he craves but the ache is much better than the emptiness of _nothing_.

Which is exactly what he feels when Saeyoung later attempts to plant words of conviction into his soul, obviously desperate to imbue him with some kind of religious belief, a litany meant to instill his trust in _something_.

Yet, no matter how much— _loath to admit_ —Saeran still feels he has to gain Saeyoung's approval, he can't bring himself to believe that there's a place for him in the clouds.

* * *

_I'm not like them but I can pretend. The sun is gone but I have a light. The day is done but I'm having fun. I think I'm dumb, maybe just happy..._

Saeran watches the members of the RFA and their significant others passively, with all the interest of a dispassionate spectator as they flicker in and out of his life like the changing of seasons. He observes from a distance, appraises their personal interactions and the synergy they share when time deems it necessary, and even with every chapter and verse laid out before him he can't put himself between the documentation of their truth and the substantiation of what he's already surmised. In layman's terms: Saeran simply can't understand them for who they are or what they're living for.

That being said, he tries his best to find his place or at least pretend at normalcy, so when V brings his sister to Saeyoung's residence— _their_ residence _—_ he sees the introduction as a cornerstone. An opportunity to lay the groundwork for his chance to fit in, something he never thought so critical to his happiness until he realized how deep the poison ran in his veins and how much it hurt to lose the one person he'd worshiped in a way similar to how Saeyoung idolizes his— _what is it?_ —Lord and _Savior_? Oh, the irony.

Only it was hard for Saeran to dovetail the two halves of his life and the amalgamation of personalities he had become. He didn't know how he was supposed to convince this girl to be his— _what was it_ , acquaintance? friend? liaison?—surely not his _partner_. He was by no means prepared to sail that ship and even less prepared to dive past the craggy rocks of his insecurity and into the turbulent waters of his self-loathing. He knew that he had too many bridges to burn before he could take himself a lover and leave the familiar scent of the shore behind. Thus, he settled on the only thing that wouldn't come back to haunt him: _truth_.

So when he finally charmed her into his clutches he never disguised his intentions. He never hid the fact that she was to be nothing more than a toy to slake his boredom. He never concealed the fact that he had chosen her because of a tiresome past of deceit and manipulation crafted by none other than her brother and his, _then_ , lover. Though, Saeran has all the reason to believe that V and Rika have done nothing more than carve a notch into the binds they were supposed to sever. That, however, is a story for another time.

Now, Saeran is trying to parse why she's so accepting of the fate he's rendered to her. The only reasons he can produce are that she's either moonstruck or masochism is a trend that runs deep through the branches of her family. Either way, with this newfound relationship he finds himself more confused than ever, constantly on the receiving end of an emotion he can't name every time he looks at her.

 _At_ _you_.

* * *

  _Polly wants a cracker. Maybe she would like more food. She asks me to untie her. A chase would be nice for a few._

The first time he has sex with you he tries for ghosting touches and light kisses, the kind of affection that makes your skin prickle like it's a live wire, the electricity of it enough to spread heat through your veins like the lightning that crackles down the length of your spine to fizzle out between your thighs. It seems easy enough and Saeran has convinced himself that he's capable of it before he's shoving a hand into the fall of your hair and pushing you down against the squeak and shift of an old mattress. But he's not. He's not capable of tenderness or sweet seduction or the kind of affection that he's read about in two-bit magazines and seen in the movies Saeyoung loves to make him watch despite his dislike of them.

He thinks that he should feel disappointed but when he ties you face-down to the bed, arms and legs bound to the point of aching, he tells himself that he should have known better. He should have known that he'd never be capable of the kind of normalcy Jaehee and Zen and Yoosung practice. He should have _known_ when he spent hours awake in his bed thinking about how your voice would sound under the strain of agony and how beautiful your blood would spill when he carved his name into the soft of your skin. He should have _known_ when he fantasized about digging the sharp edges of his teeth into your shoulders and pressing his fingers into bruises against the give of your body.

Saeran determines that he doesn't like to think and his former fondness of preparation has waned and shifted into the deepest corners that have hollowed out his mind. He wants to be as unpredictable as his moods, which are as changeable as the wind. He doesn't care much for prognostication and for some reason, the thought of you getting used to his doings makes the bitterness of something unpleasant stick to the dark of his throat.

So he plays his cards like he's been raised on the edge of the devil's backbone, every move deliberate, done with the same hell-bent resolve he capitalized at Mint Eye, without repentance or remorse. Sometimes he calls you over just to instigate an argument at the door, telling you that if you had any common sense you'd turn around and walk away, that if you stay he won't give you up until every part of you is suffering, then he'll slam the door in your face and you won't hear from him for days. Sometimes he will show up at your place unannounced with take-out and your favorite movie, and he'll spend the rest of the evening treating you with adoration and a kindness that makes you too afraid to even _think_ about where you stand in your relationship. More often than not he draws you in without a word to dress you in ropes, to tease you with the edge of a knife or the slow burn of candle-wax that you always seem to find glued to your skin hours after you part. Sometimes he uses nothing more than the weight of his hands and the precision of his fingertips, dexterous and skilled in ways you never thought possible. And sometimes, though not as often, Saeran uses the low purr of his voice, as smooth as velvet and soft as satin to push you over the edge and into an all-consuming orgasm that refuses the comforts of a safety net. There's pain and there's danger; the slick weight of Saeran's cock moving inside of you enough to drive you to the brink of madness without the barrel of a gun pressed against your temple. Yet, it's times like these when Saeran feels the most alive, when he can whisper sweet nothings and salacious promises into your ear without wondering if what he's doing is a mistake.

It's the blood and the bruises and the _threat_ that makes Saeran feel whole again. But the expense of that happiness is coupled with a fear he's never felt before; he's not afraid, he's _terrified,_ and it's an emotion that keeps him up at night. It makes his breath catch in his throat and his heart beat like the wildfire that burns through his veins.

He's already learned that life is as fragile as a dream and that the things you love can do you the most harm—but he's only just started to understand that things aren't always as they seem and hearts aren't always red...they're black and blue.

* * *

  _If I had to lose a mile, if I had to touch feelings; I would lose my soul the way I do._

Saeran toes the line when it comes to the boundaries of your consent, the limit of his forbearance as forgiving as the proverbial lamb—but he's still a wolf in sheep's clothing and your concession has nothing to do with his boundless desire to get under your skin. He pushes and pulls, belittles and humiliates until you're standing at the crossroads of your mental compass and physical restraint.

The second time Saeran has sex with you it's more about his ambition to humiliate you rather than actual pleasure. He greets you with a collar in one hand and a leash in the other. He can see the horror in your eyes but there's something in the shape of your melancholy smile that tells him that it's okay to continue. So he tailors the shape of your body and fits you into the support of submission before he pushes you down to your knees, ready to make you helpless and hopeless and lost in the haze of his lust.

You're trembling and struggling to breathe before Saeran even tugs at the leash wrapped around his hand. The leather collar pulls tight against your throat and you attempt to draw oxygen into your lungs but Saeran's pressing his cock in against the soft-damp of your mouth, rocking his hips forward to fuck against the shiver in your throat. You can taste the salt of his flesh and feel the heat of blood beneath his skin, his body going hot as the pleasure of your slick aperture envelopes him. You close your eyes and let his hands command you, his fingers sliding along the line of your scalp to close around your loose strands and brace against the back of your skull. He drags your head back and thrusts into your mouth until he's spilling viscous ropes of completion over your tongue and down your throat.

He's still shaking with pleasure when he draws himself out of your mouth, the friction of doing so enough to drag a broken sound up his throat and past his lips. It's the first time you allow yourself to challenge Saeran, and when you draw him down to your level to kiss the breath from his lungs and lick your way into his mouth, he realizes that your relationship transcends animal magnetism by means he didn't think either of you were capable of outstripping. It's more than just sex and violence and power and manipulation. It's something monumental.

Saeran sucks the salt-slick from your tongue in an unstated gesture of obscene acceptance. It's a challenge that he won't take lightly and a pivotal moment to the future of your relationship when he recognizes your personal commitment and the gravity of your strength.

He wonders if this is what it means to be lucky and if he's finally experiencing the potential optimism he spurned for years and the peace of mind he neglected to feel.

He thinks that he should speculate the possibility a bit longer.

* * *

_Now the people cry and the people moan and they look for a dry place to call their home, and try to find someplace to rest their bones while the angels and the devils try to make them their own._

Saeran doesn't know where he belongs, doesn't know how to fit himself into the jagged puzzle pieces of his life. He doesn't know if there's room for him in this place so many call home or if he should simply carve his existence into the sand where so many have lost their lives. He feels like he's been searching for something he can't find, night and day, breaking beauty just for a semblance of proof he knows that he'll never be able to identify.

He tries to tell himself to hold on, that he's only just discovered the sun, but he's not prepared to exhale all the dark and the gray. So he beats himself black and bleeds himself blue in a desperate search for the rapture that he's lost, for the pieces he's collected and buried so deep they'll never be found. He begs for another life and wishes for death and just as he finds himself standing between the gates of mercy and malevolence, you take him by the hand and call him back home.

Saeran counts on you but he'll never admit it because doing so—in his eyes—would be admitting defeat and he's never been good at losing. So he treats you badly while calling attention to the fact that you don't leave him feeling so hollow. He begs to see the worst in you and turns your skin into a dirty secret, addicted to the way you crash and burn together like a madhouse society. It's corrupt and unsound and he knows that he's tempting fate but he can't forget the past, and he's convinced that the future is nothing more than a story-line of mass destruction.

He spends his nights waiting for an intervention but the voices inside of his head are too loud, and by the time the mediation comes he's too paranoid to accept it. Some nights he cries himself to sleep and some nights he claws at his skin until the burn is enough to remind him that he's still alive. And some days he feels so close to breaking that he wonders how there's anyone left to take his side—but even through all of the violence and the blood and the tears, the broken screams and the venomous contention, you're there to burn away the whole of who he is to leave only ash and dust on his skin. You shoot him down and do him in and if he was capable of succumbing to weakness he might think differently, but right now, he's willing to bet _everything_ that this loss is his greatest victory.

You did say that you'd wait forever, after all.

* * *

  _I wish I was like you, easily amused. Find my nest of salt. Everything is my fault. I'll take all the blame._

A new year begins and the frore of wintertide and the promise of frost-bitten fingers is enough to keep Saeran from going outside. He curls himself into his favorite chair and watches Saeyoung toss marshmallows into his girlfriend's mouth, laughter bright on his lips like the firelight catching in his glasses. There's a spill of hot chocolate down the front of his shirt and miniature balls of sugar mottling the floor like fat snowflakes, which might look pretty on their own if not for the crumpled chip bags and empty cans of soda beside them. Saeran can already see the look of irritation on Vanderwood's face and hear the annoyance in his speech when he discovers the mess.

It's something that would usually bring a smile to his lips but he can't seem to find happiness in the blight and decay of his morality. He doesn't know where it all went wrong or when the framework of his integrity fell into a confusion of ruin. He doesn't know when he started walking such a fragile line or when he became afraid to take a stand.

Saeran leans against the back of the chair and focuses on the _pop_ and _crackle_ of the fire that warms his skin. He stares into the soft glow until the reds and the oranges and the yellows dance behind his eyes even when he can no longer hold them open. He doesn't remember ever being this tired, burned-out and worn-down like his life is about to expire.

He wraps his arms around his legs and rests his chin against his knees. He exhales a quiet breath and tries to forget how you looked the day you walked away. His chest tightens and he feels like he can't breathe, like he's being held underwater to drown in the swirling depths of the elixir that anesthetized him more times than he cares to remember. He opens his eyes but there's no light and when he drops to his knees he knows that he's consigned to the darkness he was born into. He crawls on his belly and chokes on the poison in his lungs; he draws shapes on the floor and curses his breathing because he would give everything up just for another chance to make things right, for just another moment with you.

A hand closes on his shoulder and Saeran can hear himself screaming, can feel something give beneath the force of his fist, and when he opens his eyes he's looking at a reflection of himself. He blinks the room into clarity and calls his vision into focus, his stomach sick and his heart pounding wildly in his chest. His fist is buried in the dark of his twin's shirt and it's not until then that he realizes how far he is from the pinnacle of his brother's plateau and the image of who he _wants_ to be.

However, something changes at that moment because Saeran realizes that you're standing against the backdrop of the room and your absence was nothing more than a cruel figment of his imagination—a distant berth of guilt and condemnation and self-loathing nested against a violent sea that longs to inundate his body and mind. He can see the bruises that line your throat and the marks that circle your wrists, but it's not the proof of his flawed affection that calls to his attention, it's the look on your face and the light in your eyes; it's the sound of your voice when you tell him that everything's going to be okay.

Saeran nods once and takes a deep breath, then he closes his eyes to the brightness of the sun and buries his anguish in the moondust.

* * *

  _My girl, my girl, don't lie to me, tell me where did you sleep last night? In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever shine; I would shiver the whole night through. My girl, my girl, where will you go? I'm going where the cold wind blows._

Saeran is miles from where he started, a place that no longer exists, not in his mind or in the nearest reaches of reality. He's far from perfect and he doesn't expect he'll ever be particularly normal— _whatever that means_ —but he no longer feels like each day runs the risk of losing you.

He knows that when morning comes he's going to wake up next to you, that he can kiss you with all the slowness of a lazy Sunday morning or bite your lips to bruising; it won't matter how he feels or who he is in that moment because he knows that you'll accept him through all the good and the bad.

He used to need to put words to what he didn't understand but he no longer needs a reason to fit himself against the shape of your body, to whisper against the soft of your ear or to drag his fingers over the shift of your breathing. Whether he's kissing the space between your legs or the space above your heart, whether he's fucking into your body or fucking with your mind, he knows that you won't leave, that he won't be abandoned by someone else that he loves.

Saeran has learned to trust you, though, that's not to say that when push comes to shove he won't continue to test just how deep the roots of your love for him grow. Each day is a constant battle, an arduous undertaking to convince himself that he's good enough. Those days aren't so bad but when the tide shifts and he's bringing to reason that _you're_ good enough, he's damn near impossible. Those are the times when your body aches for days and you couldn't get his scent off of you if you wanted to. You can taste him in the back of your throat and feel him inside of your body; and every time he touches you it's electric like there's lightning in your blood and your veins have burst into flame.

Saeran imprints himself on you whenever he can, whether through a memory of decay or the flowers of yesteryear. He's demanding and stubborn and forever seeking assurance, and when he tells you that he loves you for the first time it's not without the promise of future violence. He's eternally hanging in the balance of a summer's dream and the chill of a wintry night, toiling in danger and the spoils of a conscripted war. He's always making observations about how he could tear your world apart, how he's not deserving of your love, all while he toys with your emotions and blames it on his fickle heart.

Still and all, when Saeran takes your hand in the cold of his own, his breath visible on the wind, he knows, _somehow_ , that things are going to be all right in the end.

He just has to trust that you feel the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Nirvana lyrics are property and copyright of their owners. "MTV Unplugged in New York" CD song lyrics provided for personal use only. Credit also goes to the original artists, Vaselines, Lead Belly, and The Meat Puppets. Thanks for reading!


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